It Was Just That the Time Was Wrong
by sherlockhastheTARDIS
Summary: Post-Reichenbach ficlet with lots of angst. Inspired by the Killers' cover of the Dire Straits song "Romeo and Juliet".


**A/N: I'm so so so so so sorry! School got super stressful, and then it was hell week for the play, and then Thanksgiving, and now another hell week for a dance production and just *dies*. But look! Angst! I promise I'll update When September Ends and A Day in the life and Why Talk When You Can Text soon. Thanks to those of you who stuck around. I got the idea for this one when I was listening to the cover of the Dire Straits song "Romeo and Juliet" that the Killers did. Reviews are appreciated.**

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Sitting in a seedy motel in the worst part of Berlin, Sherlock stares out at the stars. It's been seven months, four days, and two hours since he had to leave John. His John. His mind is plagued with questions now; _Is he safe? Is he happy? Has he found someone? Has his limp come back?_ Over and over, every hour of every day.

The first few months, he turned back to drugs. He knew John would have hated it, and that's what made him stop. He so badly wanted to give up now, to say "screw it all" and go home, back to John, back to 221B Baker Street with the warm fire and Mrs. Hudson baking cookies and his skull on the wall. But he knows he can't do that. Not until the web is destroyed. Not until John is safe. His John.

The one thing that keeps him going now is when he looks out at the stars at night. He knows John has to be looking at the same stars, somewhere on the planet. Mycroft won't tell him where, and that might be the best for Sherlock. He can imagine John as happy back at home. Maybe he's curled up on the sofa watching crap telly. Maybe he's in the kitchen making tea. Maybe he's sleeping. Maybe he's with yet another girl. Those thoughts hurt more than any wound the members of Moriarty's web could inflict upon him.

He closes his eyes and drifts, his mind floating back to happier times. Allowing himself to hope that one day he would come back and be with John again.

_Juliet, the dice was loaded from the start… When you gonna realise, it was just that the time was wrong?_

John looks out the window of 221B Baker Street, staring up at the stars. He wipes another tear from his still-red face, having woken up in the middle of a nightmare. _Maybe if I had told him… Maybe I could have saved him. I should have saved him,_ he thinks, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the windowpane.

A few months ago, Mrs. Hudson would have come up after hearing him screaming and knocked on the door, made him tea, and sat with him for an hour or so. But now she doesn't bother. John likes it better this way. He gets to pretend for a few minutes that Sherlock is still here, sleeping after a long case. He gets to pretend that everything is right with the world.

It hurts. It hurts everywhere. When he thinks about the things they used to do together, when he accidentally makes two cups of tea, when he shouts for Sherlock to stop sulking and come eat, when he forgets and texts Sherlock after work and then hears the ding in his desk drawer. John so badly wants to give up. But he can't. He is a soldier, he doesn't give up. So even if it hurts to draw air into his lungs John Watson will breathe.

Looking up at the stars, he remembers a line from when Sherlock made him watch The Lion King once. Something about the people we love going up to the stars when they die. He takes comfort in thinking that Sherlock is up in the stars, and that maybe, if he looks hard enough, he can make a constellation for the detective.

_Sherlock would have laughed at me,_ he thinks as he walks back to bed. He'd give anything for Sherlock to laugh at him now.

_All I do is miss you, and the way we used to be... I love you like the stars above, I love you 'till I die_

They both finally fall asleep, John with tear stains on his face, Sherlock with an emptiness in his chest. Mycroft sits in his office, watching both camera feeds. He can't help but feel the pain he knows his little brother must be feeling right now. But he knows that they'll be together, that they have to be together in the end. You can't separate two souls like theirs this way forever…

Three years later, Sherlock finds his way back to London. His hair is long and his face is thin, but the hole he feels in the centre of his chest getting smaller every day he is back in his city. He watches the camera feeds of the outside of 221B from Mycroft's office, waiting for the day he can go back. Back home. Back to John. His John.

A black car pulls up outside the Diogenes Club, and Sherlock knows it's for him. He knows he's going home. He watches the city pass by his window, his heart pounding the closer and closer they get to the flat he used to share with John.

Mrs. Hudson isn't home. _Thursday. Out doing the shopping. Milk and bread and some beans for John, even though he didn't ask_. Routine never changes within these walls. He takes a breath and opens the door, simply standing there while John looks up at him.

The army doctor stares at what he's sure is a ghost. It must be. Sherlock Holmes standing in Baker Street again… He gets up and walks over, gently touching his face, his arms, his chest. He's real. Sherlock is real. Sherlock is back. His Sherlock. The tears come back and start flowing as he crumples and sobs into the taller man's chest. Sherlock holds him tight, all the tears he had been holding back unleashing and falling freely.

They're together again. And never separating.

_There's gonna be a place for us, you know the movie song. When you gonna realise, it was just that the time was wrong? Juliet..._


End file.
